


Responsibility

by ladysisyphus



Series: Wolves [8]
Category: Fargo (2014)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-03
Updated: 2014-07-03
Packaged: 2018-02-07 06:22:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1888284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladysisyphus/pseuds/ladysisyphus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You should drink less, Wrench's hands said.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Responsibility

You should drink less, Wrench's hands said.  
  
He actually wasn't _that_ drunk -- which was a change of pace from the past few days -- but he was still operating somewhere nearer to the latter end of the scale from one to intoxicated, and he was sure he smelled like hell. He hadn't stood too long in front of a mirror in a couple days either, so he was pretty sure that his looks left something to be desired as well. But he'd answered the door when he'd the knock, and when he'd seen his partner on the other side, a little line of worry working its way down between his eyebrows, Numbers had let him in.  
  
With a sigh, Numbers kicked over an empty whisky bottle on the carpet by the coffee table. "You're not wrong," he said, signing, yes, yes. "I should do a lot of things that I don't. And I don't do a lot of things that I should. It was a Jew who said that, you know. Or something like it." He signed along as he spoke as best he could, having no illusions that he _wasn't_ making a giant mess of it, but Numbers' face never took on the little frown he got when he'd missed something he thought was critical. So either communication was going fine or he thought Numbers was just saying shit. Either way.  
  
Wrench was silent, though, his fingers knitted together and his elbows braced on his knees, and after a moment, Numbers decided that if this really was going to be an apology, he needed to make a better fucking attempt. "I cause pain for a living," he said, letting his hands make the words he knew as he spoke slowly; _something_ would eventually carry his meaning. "I'm good at it. I know where to cut. And for a little while there, I thought, okay, maybe I'm not such a bad guy. Not all the way through. But then, oops--" He spelled that one out. "I am. So we're back to where we started."  
  
No, said Wrench, snapping the tips of his fingers shut; you know sign language now.  
  
That made Numbers laugh, an angry, scoffing sound. I'm _shitty_ at it, he signed back, making his clumsy point. "I know just enough to say I'm shitty at it. And even that, just barely." He held up his thumb and forefinger half an inch apart.  
  
Wrench shrugged, looking away for a moment before sighing. He brought his hands up, hesitated, the continued: It's more than my mother knows.  
  
Numbers replayed those signs in his head for several seconds, hoping somehow he'd managed to misread; Wrench's hands, though, had been quite clear. He frowned: How does she not know?  
  
Busy.  
  
"Too busy to fucking talk to you?" asked Numbers, aware that his hands hadn't hit every word in the sentence but too angry on Wrench's behalf to care. Maybe he _was_ drunker than he'd previously reckoned. He thought about his own family, of his maternal grandparents who'd barely spoken a hundred words of English between them but had used every one of them for their grandchildren.  
  
Wrench shrugged his head in a way that almost was, but wasn't, a nod. Too busy to learn, he explained; job, other kids.  
  
"Christ," Numbers said aloud, raking his fingers through his hair before signing: Your dad?  
  
Wrench's lips set in a hard line before he shook his head. His hands, folded in front of him again, tightened until his knuckles blanched.  
  
Sorry, Numbers signed, and he repeated it aloud: "I'm sorry. I'm sorry that happened, and I'm sorry that I was an asshole. I'm just ... sorry."  
  
It's fine, Wrench signed at him, though that hardness around the corners of his mouth hadn't budged. They didn't talk about the past -- not least because talking about the past could be hellaciously difficult, depending on what signs Numbers knew and didn't -- but Numbers had read between the lines of their various conversations an uncomfortable story about Wrench's family history, and having even a scrap of it confirmed wasn't anything approaching surprising.

Numbers waited until Wrench's gaze drifted back to him, then put his hands in front of him, palms facing out, in what he hoped was a fair gesture for _bear with me while I do this_. I cause pain for a living, he signed again, biting the insides of his lips together so he didn't speak; this apology was for Wrench, so he was doing it on Wrench's terms. He continued: But I was hurting people a long time before I got paid for it. I got good at it. I got smart about it. I learned. And sometimes I can't stop. R-E-F-L-E-X.  
  
He didn't know how this was going over, but Wrench nodded despite his stony face, and Numbers took it as a cue to continue: You had your hand on my neck -- and there he put his hand up, mimicking the way Wrench had grabbed him and held him to the wall -- and all I could think was, okay, okay, he's going to kill me, and I D-E-S-E-R-V-E that. Not scared. Not angry. Okay, this is fair.  
  
For what felt like years, Wrench just looked at him, to the point where Numbers almost became afraid that he'd just been flapping his hands into gibberish -- an old fear, and one that had abated after months of talking to Wrench like this, but not fully vanished. At last, a sad little smile warmed his face as he signed: What would I do if I killed you?  
  
Numbers snorted a sad laugh. "Probably get a fucking _bonus_ ," he said, signing 'get' and spelling 'bonus'. He slumped back down on the couch. "Eat real bacon. Wear my coat."  
  
Wrench signed something that Numbers didn't get, so when he frowned, Wrench signed again: Your coat, he began, and then he mimed trying it on and having it be too small.  
  
Numbers kicked Wrench's denim-covered shin with his bare foot. "You're a smart guy. You'll think of something." He signed and lifted his hands again, making a conscious effort to sign as much as he could as he spoke: "I'm a shithead. And you're a good guy."  
  
With the slightest wry edge to his faint smile, Wrench shoot his head: No. F-A-G-G-O-T-D-E-A-F-M-U-T-E, like you said.  
  
And there it was. With a great groaning sigh, Numbers buried his face in his hands. He didn't know what he was hoping -- that he'd just _thought_ everything loud enough that he wrongly imagined he'd said it, or that it had all occurred in mouth shapes Wrench wasn't able to catch with his sometimes-spotty lip-reading, or maybe that it'd even all been some horrible nightmare hallucination that he could go on believing no one else saw. The fact that he'd thought those words at all made him sick enough to his stomach; that he'd _said_ them had sent him down the neck of more than a few bottles.  
  
The worst part, even, was that he'd broken a promise. He'd sworn up and down that it didn't matter to him, and now Wrench would never believe him that it _didn't_ matter, it _still_ didn't matter -- what mattered was that it mattered to Wrench. One time he'd been in a fight with a guy with a bum knee, and Numbers had kicked that knee out for all he was worth. It hadn't been because he had anything personal against knees. It had been a simple matter of finding a weak spot and going for it. That was all.  
  
And none of that reasoning erased how he was a colossal shithead, so he didn't even try to construct the excuse, not with voice or hands or anything. Even with deaf guys, some bells couldn't be unrung.  
  
After a moment passed and Wrench hadn't moved audibly, Numbers raised his head. The expression on Wrench's face was so kindly curious it was almost pity, and Numbers didn't know if that made it better or worse. No, wait, worse. Definitely worse. He sighed and made a letter H with his hand, then put it to the side of his head and mimed firing it, splattering his imaginary brains against the far wall.  
  
No, signed Wrench, a small closing of his fingers, but one that was crystal-clear; then no one talks to me anymore.

"It's not fair," said Numbers, and when Wrench's frown deepened, he shook his head and clarified: It's not fair to you that I'm all you have. Wrench shrugged in response and began to raise his hands, no doubt toward some 'it's okay' or 'it doesn't matter' platitude, so Numbers extended his arm and placed his hand palm-up a foot from Wrench's chest, waiting there and looking him straight in the eye until Wrench relaxed and returned his hands to his lap. That done, Numbers smacked a fist against his chest before continuing: It's my job. To watch for you. To take care of you.  
  
Wrench snorted and shot back: Not your job.  
  
Numbers signed 'job' again, this time nodding emphatically. He was a professional. He knew his obligations. He pointed to Wrench: You need it. You're my R-E-S-P-O-N-S-I-B-I-L-I-T-Y.  
  
A funny little look passed over Wrench's face as Numbers signed, particularly as he spelled the last word, a hurt little wobble in his otherwise-stony expression. It was true, and pointing it out just highlighted how badly he'd fucked it up. A lot of his jobs had gone haywire that night, and he'd needed someone, _anyone_ to blame. Numbers thought for a second, then tried again: We both shot the wrong man.  
  
That coaxed at least the corner of Wrench's mouth upward; well, at least they could still joke about murder. Numbers patted his chest and signed as he spoke, "So come on, you can have a go at me now. Free hits. I deserve it. You can even write it down if you want to make sure I don't miss it." When Wrench sighed audibly, Numbers continued: "Come on, you've been thinking it."  
  
No, I haven't, Wrench replied, and the hell of it was, he probably hadn't. For a guy in the professional revenge business, he ddin't seem to hold many grudges. It's the same things, he signed, the same things everyone says when I'm not looking, I know. Just forget it.  
  
"That makes it worse," Numbers said. Wrench balked, and Numbers signed 'worse' again, this time with feverish intensity. "Because they don't know better."  
  
You know and you think the same thing, Wrench replied, his expression not accusatory, but resigned. Sure, Numbers hadn't meant it, but how many times had Wrench heard it from people who _had_? The room for difference was negligible. Fuck, he'd even tried to _sign_ it. He could talk to Wrench in a way Wrench's own _parents_ hadn't even been able to do, and he'd weaponized it just as soon as he could. It looked like no matter how bad he was feeling, it wasn't bad enough.  
  
He'd never been good at reconciliation, though, so he looked at Wrench and signed: Don't forgive me. Hit me.  
  
Wrench rolled his eyes: You'll break if I hit you.  
  
"Fuck you, I'm tough," Numbers said, showing Wrench an upraised middle finger. When Wrench mimed breaking a twig and having pieces fall everywhere, Numbers' left hand joined the gesture. "Oh, fuck you with _both_ hands."  
  
You'll break those too, Wrench signed, that faint bit of humor creeping back into his face. Talking to him here was like trying to tend a dying campfire, blowing on embers, praying with every puff the bright orange spark would catch.  
  
"You think I'm some grandma?" Numbers asked with mock offense, spelling the last word.  
  
Wrench opened his palm and put his thumb to his chin before jerking it away, then spelled G-R-A-N-D-M-A. Then he shook his head: No, grandmas are tough.  
  
"How do you know?" asked Numbers. "Did you punch a grandma?" When Wrench snorted, Numbers fixed him with an accusatory finger: "You punched a grandma. You can tell me."  
  
The hope of a fire faded as fast as Wrench's smile did. Telling you things is more-- He made a gesture that looked almost like the sign for 'sign language', and Numbers was lost for a moment before he thought back to one of their earliest jobs, not long after he'd started branching out from his excruciatingly slow finger-spelling skills. Oh. Telling him things was just more rope.

Numbers was quiet for a moment, looking away so that whatever reaction Wrench might be having, whatever backpedalling he might be doing, it couldn't land. He had a decade more of practice hiding than the kid did, and for all he said about his own upbringing, Numbers knew he'd never let slip anything of substance. Well, as long as he was talking a good game about fairness -- and as long as Wrench wasn't going to break his nose, which a large part of him _had_ been hoping for, for the sake of pure uncomplicated retribution -- he might as well pony up.  
  
"Rope," Numbers said, signing it to show he understood. He looked Wrench in the eye, shut his mouth, and began feeding it out:  
  
The first man I ever killed wasn't for a job, he signed, laboring through each word at what he knew must have been a painful speed, but unwilling to let that give him permission to stop. It was seventeen when I left home for the last time. I went to a shop and got a tattoo. I wasn't going to be a Jew anymore. Shitty rules. Stupid rules. Didn't want to talk to God. Didn't want to think about God. Didn't want to-- Numbers mimed putting on tefillin and davening, and he had no idea if Wrench understood what those gestures meant, but they were all he could do.  
  
C-T, Numbers signed, then spelled out C-O-N-N-E-C-T-I-C-U-T for good measure before sticking out his thumb, hitchhiker-style and adding the sign for 'driving' in a way he hoped made some sense. I went to a bar, and there was a man in there in a brown coat drinking a beer and talking about how he got J-E-W-E-D in business. Jews run the world. Jews cause problems. Jews' fault. I asked him, what the fuck? He said, you're a stupid K-I-K-E-F-A-G-G-O-T. Stood up next to me -- tall, big -- and said, leave or I'll kill you.  
  
You killed him? asked Wrench.  
  
Numbers nodded, but he felt tears stinging at the corners of his eyes. It was stupid -- the story was stupid, it had happened when he was seventeen, he had no reason to feel ashamed. He could have told it to the other boys in the syndicate and they would have gotten a good laugh out of it, even. But he hadn't. This was something only he knew, and that was enough.  
  
I went outside, Numbers signed, working his way around the vocabulary he didn't know. It was dark, night. I waited three hours by his car. He came out alone. I stabbed him in the back -- Numbers made the gesture several frantic times, remembering how it had felt to be that blind scared, running on panic instead of good sense -- and he fell down. He was on the ground in the snow, quiet. I grabbed the money from his wallet and his keys and took his car. I drove it until it ran out of gas in P-A. Got another ride, went west, west, west. I don't know what happened after that. No one ever came for me.  
  
Bad man, Wrench interjected into the pause.  
  
A bitter laugh caught Numbers by surprise, and he bit his lips harder to keep it in: I was bad, I was the worst. Used his money, bought a hotel room. Two nights later, I woke up screaming. N-I-G-H-T-M-A-R-E. Puked for hours. Shaking, crying, couldn't stop. All I could think was about how he'd looked on the ground and how his blood had _smelled_ and how it was on my shoes and how -- Numbers sighed before continuing -- how if I'd been brave and faced him, maybe I would have punched him, but I wouldn't have stabbed him. He wouldn't be dead. I wasn't a bad man. I was a C-O-W-A-R-D. A little boy, sick and scared.

_He_ , Wrench signed, and when Numbers frowned, Wrench repeated the signs: He was a bad man. That was what I meant.  
  
"Oh," said Numbers aloud, and the sound of his own voice startled him in the quiet that had grown between him. His whole life had been so full of noise that this silence they could cultivate together was a terrifying relief. No, Numbers signed after a moment, he was just a man. A stupid man. Maybe he had Jewish friends. Maybe ... he was just angry and saying whatever he thought, even if he didn't mean it. Just ... an asshole with a big mouth, with the bad luck to talk in front of a stupid Jewish kid with a knife. And he didn't walk away. Then I ate bacon. Puked again. Cried because I missed my mom.  
  
Wrench's face was grave, but at least there was no trace of pity; Numbers didn't know what he would have done with pity under those circumstances. At last, he nodded and drew one of his hands into a fist, then put it against the center of his own chest.  
  
Numbers recognized the gesture for what it was, and for how different Wrench's gentle, sympathetic 'sorry' fist had been from the way Numbers had practically beaten his breast before. The double meaning to the gesture hadn't even connected until then -- he hadn't been to services in _years_ , had barely marked when the High Holy Days came and went, yet here he was in the midst of his own Day of Atonement: for the sins which he had committed under duress or willingly, for the sins which he had committed by deceiving a fellowman, for the sins which he had committed by foolish talk, for the sins which he had committed by a confused heart.  
  
"We're a said pair," Numbers said aloud, running the sign for 'same' back and forth between the two of them. "So thank God we're so damn handsome."  
  
Wrench was startled into a little snort of laughter, and as he looked at Numbers now, there was the fire in his smile -- catching, spreading, burning the past and bringing them both back to life.


End file.
